Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Yes, I’m being unfair.

  I don’t care. I was sitting in the back of a state-owned SUV being chauffeured to one of those Victorians against my will to meet one of those old-money types who has nonetheless managed to win the hearts of enough progressives in the state that he might as well start writing his acceptance speech, almost a year before the election.

  Dylan tapped away at his phone, while Thorn sat rock still, hands balled together in his lap. I tossed my wig back on and tried to get it straight.

  Thorn grimaced. “Really?”

  “It pulls the outfit together.”

  “You look like a man in a skirt.”

  “That’s why I need the wig, you big silly sausage.”

  I blew him a kiss and tucked my own hair under, doing the best I could without a mirror. Wanted to look as dead as possible for the Senator. We rolled on into Cathedral Hill, the main drag block-after-block of red brick Victorian apartments with restaurants and bars on the first floor trimmed in black. A very monochromatic crawl, even when we turned left onto the residential streets. After another few blocks of apartment buildings and duplexes, however, the yards became hillsides and the homes … impressive? Palatial? Definitely show-offy. The one at which we finally pulled to the curb was a slate-colored brick mini-castle. It had a turret, as if it was still expecting real Vikings to attack, not just the football team.

  We walked up the path to the front door, and Dylan went in without ringing the bell. He made his way into the depths of the house, while Thorn and I stood in the foyer. And what an offensive foyer it was.

  Not that it wasn’t gorgeous and tasteful and impeccably presented, but the whole point of it was to say I have so much money that I buy precious things in far-away lands for the sole purpose of displaying them here so you can see how rich I am. The pornography of imperialism at its most vulgar. Might as well get a pigmy in a grass skirt to open the door and ask your guests, would you like to see a picture or my master’s huge cock?

  When you walk into my apartment, you see a messy kitchen, secondhand furniture, and a framed poster from the New Orleans Jazz Fest, one my dad brought back after he and mom took a trip there ten years ago, only a handful of months before Hurricane Katrina sunk the city.

  See, I’m proud of that poster. I really dig it.

  But this. The rug had to have cost five-figures and been flown in from the Himalayas; the grandfather clock, one with a full-length feature film’s worth of art carved into it; a framed painting by someone Spanish Whom We All Know, I think. I swear, the frame on it alone must have been rescued from a King’s winter home in the Swiss Alps.

  Wait, did I say he was trying to show off? Let me correct myself: he was trying to intimidate. And it worked, oh Lord, did it ever work.

  A peek into the main parlor — hardwood floors from the turn of the century (the previous century, not Y2K), covered by more rugs worth a year’s salary each, furniture of the sort I’ve only seen in Glensheen Mansion or in movies about Englishmen who still used swords to duel for their inbred lady friends.

  But before I could take the full inventory and amuse you with more middle-class quips, Thorn’s pocket vibrated. He pulled out his phone and read a message. “All right, let’s go.” He pointed the way through the parlor to a back hall.

  I had expected him to trail me, but once I was halfway across the room and glanced back, he was heading elsewhere. That stopped me in my tracks. I was alone again, but at least now I was warm. I wondered how much time Hans Marquette had spent here. Not just in this house, but in this room, this museum to the wealth of his family. I wondered if Hannah had ever stood here, fully out to the world. I wondered if they had met in this room, Hannah and Andrew, when the politician was thinking of backing down and the ‘enforcer’ was pushing him to stay the course.

  Or maybe it was all over the phone. Less dramatic that way.

  A voice from the back hallway: “Back here.”

  I didn’t rush. Took slow steps, my boots squishy, leaking all over his antique floors and crazy-expensive rugs. It felt as if a strong wind was holding me back, but there wasn’t even a faint draft in this mansion. I was doing it to myself.

  Eventually, at the entrance to the hall, I saw another door to the right, lots of light pouring out of this one. Some clinking noises, delicate, and the soft murmur of conversation. I peered into the room, a long and brilliant kitchen. The cabinets were painted artic white, classic, and they fit the feel of the entire house. The appliances were all stainless steel, sleek and modern, and the countertops dark granite. The island in the middle set up with a second stovetop and sink and an open area lined with simple steel stools. Light flooded the room like magic, though it was just clever wiring to hide the machinery yet keep the ambiance.

  The Senator sat on the last stool. He looked younger than he had on TV and photos, the opposite of what I had expected. Sitting there in a v-neck undershirt and running shorts, barefoot and with his hair tousled instead of blow-dried and moussed, I could see why it was important for the house to be intimidating. The owner wasn’t, at least not like this, not with his elbows over a bowl of cereal, the Cookie Crisp box right beside him on the island. Crunching away. Dylan stood to his side, double-duty texting and listening to his instructions. When the aide saw me, he excused himself, walked past me with a curt nod, and off into the bowels of the castle.

  Andrew Marquette turned his head towards me, raised his eyebrows, and slowly pointed his spoon at me. After a lingering look, he shook his head. “No, not even close. But I can see it; I can see people getting confused at a distance, maybe. She was taller than you. Bonier.”

  “I wasn’t really trying—”

  “Yeah, you were. It just didn’t work, but it sure got their attention, didn’t it?”

  “Whose attention?”

  “Whoever killed her. Hey, come sit down.” He patted the stool beside him. “They told me you weren’t too keen to see me.”

  Keen? Really?

  I took the long way around, suddenly self-conscious in my torn hose and short skirt, damp t-shirt and squishy boots. My first brush with fame, pretty much, and look at me. I wondered what he saw. I felt small. I felt leered at. So instead of going right for him, I put the island between us, propped myself against the edge of the granite top, my only defense against him.

  Well, other than my police self-defense training, but at that moment, it felt as if I’d never had a single lesson. Totally vulnerable except for what I knew about his brother. His sister. He used the feminine when speaking about her. Her. She.

  I stood directly across from him and waited. He lowered the spoon again and ate some more cereal. Took his time with it. Seemed to enjoy it.

  Crunch.

  “You called her ‘she’. I didn’t think … well.”

  Shrug. “It’s what she wanted. She saved my life, you know about that, right? So it was the least I could do.”

  “How long did you know?”

  Shit-eating grin. “Know what?”

  “That Hannah had been born a hermaphrodite. That your parents forced her into surgery.”

  The grin faded. Twisted into something nasty. “That’s not fair.”

  “I mean, did you find out about how he was chosen? How your parents bred him like a puppy in a litter? Maybe you were too young then, but you’ve got to know by now. And no way could they have kept the surgery a secret.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Tell my younger brother his parents had made some modifications? Hans was right at that age where, years later, you don’t remember what was real and what was a dream. But I knew. I was supposed to distract him. Then she finally started to assert herself, and I played along like, yeah, I hear you. I really do.”

  “When did she tell you about her investigation?”

  “Almost as soon as she’d seen it herself. Minutes after. And, goddamn, did she ever rip me apart. But even then, we were brothers, you know? He couldn’t blame me for what our parents did. Not even once
they’d admitted it to me.”

  If Marquette was annoyed that I hadn’t taken the stool beside him, he didn’t show it. He looked up at me, sighed. “I miss her. You, dressed like this, I’ve gotta tell you, this pisses me off a little. The last few times, up at the cottage, it didn’t make a difference. Hannah was still Hans. When we were together … still Hans.”

  “Didn’t she threaten you? When you went back on your deal—”

  He laughed it off, knew exactly what I was going to say. “A deal? You think we made some sort of deal? This isn’t a TV show, my friend. Hannah was a political operator. She knew what was going on. It was her job to know how people get shit done. When someone wanted something before they wrote us a check, some assurance, some promise that we were holy crusaders against gays and abortionists and weirdos, well, Hannah’s job was to make them feel better about giving us their money even though she told them we weren’t for sale. But fuck, we were so far along … why would I switchback? Why would I do that to her?”

  “To win.”

  “I’m going to win. I can go on TV right now and within five minutes convince people that Jesus wants them to pay more taxes so we can get rid of creationism in the schools, so long as I say it in the right order with the right code words. Wake up, kid. It’s much more about personality than issues. Whatever it is, I’ve got it, and I’m going to be the governor of Minnesota. And Hannah knew that she had nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s not what she told her friends.”

  “You can say that now. How do I know? What if they’re making it up on their own? Seriously, why hasn’t any of this hit the news? If I was going to turn my back on the gays and the trannies, why hasn’t anyone in the media broken the story? Go on, have a guess, Miss Marple. No? All out of ideas, are you? Well, here’s a new one for you: Because that’s not going to happen. We’re going to win, and we’re going to do it with the gays and trannies on our side, and they’re going to get the benefits. Hard to believe? Not my problem. I gave my word, to her, to my voters, and fuck these evangelicals. Most of them have had more affairs than all the liberals they demonize put together.”

  Crunch. Crunch.

  “You don’t seem too upset.”

  Crunch.

  “About Hannah.”

  Swallow. “Listen, Herman? Manny, right? Have you thought of another name yet? Like Manuela? Or is that wrong? Listen—”

  “Right now, just call me Hannah.”

  He smiled. “Damn, you’ve got balls. I like that. So listen, Hannah, I’m not going to break down in front of a crossdressing cop I’ve never met. I have mourned the fuck out of her, okay? She’s been missing for a long time. Just because you’re the last person to have seen her doesn’t mean you’ve got the full picture.”

  “Why am I here, then? Do you want to know who killed Hannah? I know. I was about to make a deal with those cops, so I could finally cover my crossdressing ass and tell someone who killed her and why. Do you want to know?”

  “I know who killed her. I’m not stupid.”

  “Then why didn’t you—”

  “The fuck is that going to help?” he yelled, pushed back his stool, and started pacing. “How the fuck does that help her, help me, help any of us? That sorry son of a bitch thought killing my bro—fuck—sister was better than being embarrassed? Better than getting a divorce? Why didn’t he talk to me first? Why didn’t he let me deal with Hannah? Jesus, you think I haven’t been thinking about what to do now?”

  “Have you?”

  He boomed, thunderclaps around the kitchen. “You think I’m going to let him get away with it?”

  It chilled me. Probably because I actually believed him.

  Yep. He had my vote.

  4

  The next governor of the state of Minnesota paced his kitchen, telling me he was planning some sort of revenge on the person who killed his brother … sister … sibling, okay? Easier that way.

  Now, I’m not claiming that my mind was some steel-trap Nero Wolfe detective machine, not by a long shot. But I’d done my homework, I’d seen the evidence and I could count to ten backwards when I wasn’t drunk.

  Hans had been missing for almost a month when Gerard and I got the call about Hannah.

  Chief Neudecker was still Chief then, but retired very quickly after. He had claimed he’d wanted to get to that fishing hut as early as possible, and we’d swallowed his bullshit hook, line, and sinker.

  But he didn’t hit the water right away. He retreated to his cottage in Castle Danger. The cottage that wasn’t far from Hannah’s.

  All this time, Andrew Marquette had known?

  I couldn’t believe that.

  “When did you know for sure?”

  He smoothed his hand over his head, his hair ruffling higher. Frown lines betrayed his age. “We thought we were at a dead end. I mean, yeah, she had told me about the Club. She had told me she’d met someone, but she wasn’t going to tell me who. So I got Thorn to look into it, we’ve known each other a long time, and it was easy enough to find out … but how do you … how could I …” He raised his hands, defeated. “It’s delicate.”

  I pulled the box of cereal over, grabbed a handful of the tiny cookies, and chowed down. When had I last eaten? No idea. Still chewing, I urged him to keep talking. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I needed proof. I mean, the story barely made a ripple up there. No one knew it was Hans, and before they could find out, she slipped away. It’s crazy. I thought I was connected, but no one on the police wanted to talk about it. And how was I supposed to tell them — by the way, that woman on the ice was my brother? Please. Not what she would’ve wanted.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He returned to his stool, slid onto it again. “You want a bowl? Some milk?”

  “I’m good.” Supposedly chocolate chip, but c’mon, it was really more chemical sweet.

  “It didn’t feel like she wanted me to out her after she was dead. Hannah’s secret died with her. I had my parents to think about, too.”

  “You sound as if this was a bad thing, her being trans.”

  Marquette shook his head. “No. She was taking her time, figuring it out on her own. My parents understood that what they’d done to her was wrong.”

  “She was going to go public with it all, eventually. The whole story.”

  “I know. I told her she should.”

  I almost choked on the cereal. Cleared my throat. “You kidding me?”

  “Of course I told her to. My parents would’ve got over it. Their friends wouldn’t have cared, not really. In private, they’d say, ‘You did nothing wrong. Same as I would’ve done.’ But for me and Hannah? Once again, the younger generation of Marquettes shows how they are a new brand of Republican. We don’t care how you live your life. You should have the freedom to do it without so much government interference. Good message, right?”

  No point in telling him my own political views, simple as they are, about government doing the right things on civil rights years before the country was ‘ready’. Sometimes the government got things right. Sometimes.

  “How does any of this change now that Hannah is gone?” I asked. “Why not celebrate her? Why not reveal her struggle, reveal the indignities she suffered, and still get that ‘message’ out there?”

  This time his smile was sad, the face of someone who was truly hurting. He took another spoonful of cereal and crunched at it, thinking about what to tell me. Then, “Remember when I said it’s not a TV show? Well, in a way that’s exactly what it is. Hannah wouldn’t want the distraction. It might hurt the campaign.”

  I didn’t get it. I mean, Senator Marquette had a transgender sibling and was willing to back it up with his politics in a party that thought denying gays their civil rights was the Jesus thing to do. This was just the sort of move that created legends. And yet, both of them thought it was better to keep it hidden? Could I believe him? Did he believe himself?

  “Listen, Senator.”


  “Andrew, please.”

  “Sir. Have you been holding out on me? On the cops?”

  “Actually, it’s more like I was about to hit a brick wall. Then you showed up.”

  “Me?”

  “Someone had broken into Hannah’s cottage. Not ‘broken into’, but they had a key, and they went in, and they turned it upside down. At the time, I thought, maybe this Paula person I’d heard about. So when she came to you, I had Thorn hide out in the cottage because I thought she might take you there.”

  “Why didn’t you just give me whatever she had found?”

  “Because I’d already been through it myself when she first disappeared. Didn’t find a thing. And we were fucking thorough, believe me. So it seemed to me the first person to break in was frustrated.”

  “It wasn’t Paula.”

  “I’ve got that now. The Chief sent someone else. When Paula found it like that, she went to Raske, and he pointed her to you.”

  “Daniel Raske?”

  “No, no. The son. The son said you had some info you shouldn’t have. He knew your car, jimmied it open for her. See, I had my own detectives watching the detective. Remember that song?”

  What was he talking about?

  “Thorn was waiting to talk to you. We probably could’ve joined forces that night, if you hadn’t run for it. And, Jesus, the Marine. What the hell was that all about?”

  That feeling when your guts are looking for someplace to go other than where they belong. Holy shit. “I lost my job. Joel almost killed a man. You couldn’t just … give me a call? An email?”

  “Like I said. It’s delicate.” He pushed his bowl away and wiped the milk off his mouth with the back of his wrist. “So, Hannah. Now you know. You’ve got all of the info you need. The killer. The dirt on my parents. Your own free will. What’s next? Do you still want that deal with the cops? Because if so, we can send you back, let this go through the proper channels, and find out together what sort of circus springs up around it.”